


Erebor is Empty (And All the Gods are Here in Your Kitchen)

by madqueenofhellskitchen



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Alternate Universe - No One Ring, Ancient Egyptian Literature & Mythology, BAMF Bilbo, Battle of Five Armies, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Character Death, Epic Battles, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, F/M, Flowers bloom where Bilbo walks, Immortality, M/M, Minor Character Death, Romance, So you know it's going to be a crazy ride, Thorin Is an Idiot, Thranduil's a pompous Celtic God, Throin can't control his emotions but can control a forge, Tragic Romance, Trips to the Underworld included
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-01
Updated: 2014-06-01
Packaged: 2018-02-03 01:26:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1726127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madqueenofhellskitchen/pseuds/madqueenofhellskitchen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greek Mythology AU. People never tell you anything, it seems. Never why you can understand flowers, why you can make gardens grow...and why people die unexpectedly around you. Or, they do tell you, but it is usually thirty years too late.<br/>For Bilbo Baggins has been told he is the Son of Hades and Persephone, a child of the Old Gods. And he is being recruited by the other Sons to take back Erebor, the Holy Mountain, from the Titans and Giants that killed their 'parents' years ago, the creatures led by Smaug, Son of Cronus.<br/>And again, no one tells him important things--like that his powers will grow until life and death are in his very hands. To where he can become invisible in the shadows and use the trees as weapons. That he will befriend the children of Artemis, Apollo, Hermes and more, while evading the glares and doubtful anger of the son of Hephaestus and Aphrodite.<br/>And he was also never told that he could not only become the ruler of the Gods if he lives to see the end of his unexpected adventure, but that he would fall in love with the one who really wants the crown and home.<br/>But he would be told this: Myths, dear boy, are frighteningly real. So you better run and keep your weapons close.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Erebor is Empty (And All the Gods are Here in Your Kitchen)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [northerntrash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/northerntrash/gifts), [cuddlebeaglesyndrome](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=cuddlebeaglesyndrome).



> So once again, I was struck with the urge to write another story--and oh boy, is it going to be a doozy. Thankfully, I have it mostly plotted out and here are the details!  
> \- Story is going to be sticking to the Hobbit storyline for the most part. Same/similar events and so on. But obviously, the world is inhabited with different mythologies, different mythical creatures...so there's some drastic changes mixed in.  
> \- M rating will play a role in regards to later romance and violence.  
> \- Three pairings listed above and no set number of chapters as of right now.  
> \- You'll also see more than just Greek Mythology--expect Celtic, Nordic, and possibly even Egyptian.
> 
> Finally, the title is a play on the Shakespearean saying: "Hell is Empty and all the Devils are here."
> 
> This should and will be updated regularly--I'll probably update this more than the Reaper AU, because it's going to be easier to write since it's not a modern AU and I've got the major points plotted out. So expect this to be something you see often over the summer. 
> 
> Story is dedicated to Steph (cuddlebeaglesyndrome), a constantly wonderful friend and muse and who told me DO IT when I told her I wanted to write this, and Northerntrash, who ranted with me about this AU for hours the other day and was maybe even more excited than I was to start writing it. 
> 
> Okay, that's all I got for now. Let's get this show on the road! Let me know what you think, comments, kudos, and critiques are appreciated and I thank you all for reading.

****

One

**The Unexpected Prayers**

_“When the gods wish to punish us, they answer our prayers.”_

_\- Oscar Wilde_

\---

Bilbo Baggins’ story did not necessarily begin fifty years after his birth. Granted, that was when it truly took off—when everything changed—but to not take into account Bilbo Baggins’ life before everything changed would be, well, it would be downright preposterous! It would be a scam, a shame, and you, my friend, would not understand or comprehend just how important Bilbo Baggins was to actually become.

Oh, you ask me, this is the story of _Bilbo Baggins?_ You probably assumed that this was the story of the other important immortals of our time, did you not?

Though they play a role…no. This is the story of a hobbit.

But that story began with the aid of other hobbits, on a cold, early winter night, fifty years ago.

The Shire, at the time, had been peaceful and calm; though a harsh winter was predicted to be coming forth, each of the small creatures was more than willing to be fully prepared for what was to come. They continued to work hard on their farms and in their gardens, creating as many stockpiles of resources as possible. They kept their children close, for past experiences with wargs and monsters that lead to dire circumstances and dreadful deaths led the creatures to being cautious with their descendants. There was strength in their bonds and camaraderie amongst neighbors even if they did gossip about silver spoons and cake recipes.

The snow had just begun to fall one night—the first flakes of the season—and Bungo Baggins, a stocky, able-bodied hobbit with a love for maps and old stories was resting in his plaid armchair by the fire. His lovely, adventurous wife, Belladonna, sat on his right hand, embroidery in hand; though she had spent years traveling, and had never picked up the needle before marrying Bungo, Belladonna had become proficient, and was sought out for her amazing work. Neighbors came to her every day, asking for designs of flowers or apple trees they could hang in their kitchen or home; they begged for handkerchiefs and sometimes even blankets that she sewed by hand—those especially with the upcoming winter—to cover their tiny, round bodies in.

But as good as business was, as popular as Belladonna’s work could be, and how she had now become a bit of a ‘tamed hobbit’ and ‘domestic celebrity’, there were still words about how she really was: about how she longed to get out in the world again, about how she missed seeing Rivendell’s halls and speaking with the mystical creatures there; about how she wanted to go farther East again, see the remains of what Man and Elf and all other species called the Holy Mountain, the dead lands where Gods had been driven out ages ago, and where only the darkest creatures remained.

And they spoke of how she was forever baren—how she was to never have children.

Granted, Belladonna gave no substance to the rumors and gossip; she was too stubborn and mature to give in to her cousins and aunts and uncles and neighbors, but that did not mean their words failed to hurt.

“…You’re looking pensive again, darling.” Bungo spoke up over his large novel, smiling at his wife, “Whatever is the matter?”

“Just…thinking again, I suppose.” Belladonna replied with a sigh, pushing her brunette locks out of her eyes.

“…Are you thinking about what Primula’s sister said to you?”

“Her sister will never learn to keep her mouth shut.” Belladonna hissed, needle hitting the fabric just a bit harder, as if she could not just contain all her anger with just words, “I hope her precious mince pies for the winter fall on the floor!”

Bungo gave out a hearty laugh at that, “Now darling, cursing her won’t do any good. Better to think positive and be the bigger hobbit.”

“…Or pray, I suppose.” Was the returned whisper, needle and thread being set down on a thin lap.

“…And what have you been praying for, dearest?” Bungo asked, though he was certain he already knew the answer.

“…You know.”

A child, was the unspoken phrase; a child to love, to adore, to bring into this world because damn it all, if those nosy and rude hobbits could have children, why couldn’t she? She would be the best mother, the greatest mother, putting everything second before her family if given the chance.

“Darling…You know no one is around to hear your prayers anymore.” Bungo sighed, reaching for his wife’s hand, “They are all long gone—dead, really.”

“Do you think I do not know that?” Bella whimpered, “But is there really any harm in trying? Maybe someone, somewhere, can hear me!”

“You always were the hopeful one…”

“And isn’t that what we need, Bungo? Hope? We have been trying for years, and I know you want a child just as much as I, and if I need to call on the will of dead gods, then so be it, I shall. And…well…” She trailed off, almost seeming sheepish then, “Perhaps I may have burned a few goods in honor of them to increase our chances-“

“Bella!” Bungo hiccupped then, almost dropping his book, “That’s ludicrous! No one has done that in ages! And what-“

“Will the neighbors think? I do not care!” She huffed, “It was just an ear of corn and some flowers to that old harvest goddess, nothing more. Do not look so scandalized.”

“…Well…At least you didn’t burn the house down…” Bungo gave her a small smile, fiddling with his spectacles, “Or anyone else’s. But darling…you know she probably didn’t hear you. No one’s prayed to them for…well…”

“Someone has to give the first prayer to revive a dying religion, a dying god, and it might as well be me, if no one else will try! Besides, I have an actual, viable reason for praying. A prayer to win the pumpkin-growing contest isn’t a prayer, it’s a wish, and that’s entirely different from what I want.”

“I know, dear, I know… I just don’t want to see you disappointed.” He leaned over, a soft kiss being placed on her cheek, “You are all I need, and if it is not the will of others to give me a child, then I shall live with that.”

“…Thank you, but-“

Belladonna was interrupted with a shock, as a pounding echoed out through their smial, then.

A pounding on the door.

For the entire time, while they had spoken, a figure had been running through the Shire; dressed in nothing but a black cloak that wrapped around her soft and naked body underneath, she ran with no shoes, and no hair atop her feet, and as golden curls billowed underneath her hood, curls that were slowly turning white.

And flowers bloomed with each step she took, though they shortly died after, for she was dying too—prayers can only last so long and create only so much energy for physical forms to come into being.

But she reached her destination, placed her bundle on the steps of Bag-End, and vanished into soft, white dust—just in time, too, for Bungo answered the door, then, and his gasp could be heard from the living room.

“Darling? What is it?” Belladonna came running, fearing her poor husband’s weak constitution. 

“…It’s…my God, Belladonna, what have you done?”

“What do you mean, what have I done?” She huffed, hurrying closer to touch Bungo’s shoulders, “I have done nothing...at...all…”

But oh, Belladonna had done something—something quite amazing.

For there in her husband’s arms was a small child, crying loudly into the night; he had tawny curls of warm honey, and eyes a mixture of green and brown—a beautiful shade of hazel that was close to Belladonna’s own brown and Bungo’s green—all wrapped up in a pudgy body that had all ten fingers and all ten toes.

“…What…Who…?”

“He was just left here…” Bungo wistfully spoke, “Hello? Hello? Is anyone out there?” He called out into the night in awe, clutching the child to his chest. “Bella…”

“…Someone left him here…for us…”

“…P-Perhaps it was another hobbit? After all, everyone knows you want a child…”

“Do you honestly believe that?” Belladonna quipped while touching the baby boy’s hair, “Look at him…it’s as if he was created just for us.”

“Or created just to be _given_ to us! Bella…”

“Bungo. You know this is a sign.”

“And you know I don’t believe in signs.” He sighed, while closing the large, green door, “I have never believed in signs, Belladonna, I’m a stable, proper, intelligent hobbit, and I don’t believe in coincidences, chances, or signs, of all things!” Bungo steadied the hobbit boy in his arms, to get a better look at him, gently touching his cheeks that were rosy from the cold, his little neck already firmly holding up his tiny head, “I believe in cold, hard facts, and the fact is that-“

The male paused, his fingers having touched something…strange upon the babe’s neck. Bungo proceeded to move the wrappings on the child to gain a closer look at his body, and yes, it was what he had predicted: a chain.

A golden chain was wrapped around the child’s neck, a chain that was part of a round necklace.

A necklace with a sigil etched on it: a three-headed dog, growling into the air, and the moment Bungo touched it, his skin ran cold and he saw blue fire dance behind his eyelids.

The babe in his arms just giggled at his expression and Belladonna, seeing her husband pale beside her, asked,

“Bungo…what is it?”

“…Bella...That goddess…what was her name? Remind me, darling?”

A pause, a furrowed brow, “Persephone, dear. Why do you ask?”

“…W-Who was her husband again? I-I can't remember...”

“Why, it was the God of the Underworld and Dead…Hades…But Bungo, why are you asking me this?”

“…I just…Bella…This…This necklace…”

Another pair of eyes came to gaze at what Bungo stared at, and distantly, he heard Belladonna gasp, “Oh my…That’s…”

“The Dog. Yes. The Dread Lord's Dog...Hades' Dog.”

And it was then, as they stared at the boy, that they noticed the note tucked against his neck alongside the necklace, written in messy scribbles:

_Take care of this child. Protect him with your lives. Bilbo._

“We have to keep him.” Belladonna dropped the command like a stone as she took the note, “He was left here for a reason, Bungo. And you know it.”

“…Yes…A-And I suppose he…he’s kind of cute, isn’t he? Heh.” The child’s hands were up and about, trying to grab at the man’s face, “But Bella…what if he’s…?”

“Different? You should be used to that, dear. I’m quite different, after all.”

Bungo nodded, “But what shall we name him?”

“Hmm…” His wife paced as she thought, finger dancing on her chin, “Bilbo. It’s right there in the letter, after all.”

Bungo gave his wife an inquisitive look, “Doesn’t that mean, ‘Blessed Be You’, though? In the Old Languages of the Gods?”

“Hence why our dear delivery man put it on the letter, yes.” She sighed, placing the letter on the bookshelf in the entrance foyer; after a moment, she took the babe from her husband, and carefully removed the pendant of The Dog and placed it next to the letter, too. “Our little Bilbo…Blessed little child…”

“Looks I better build that crib, then.”

And the newly-made parents shared a laugh, then, as Bungo locked up the door and windows, and escorted his wife to the bedroom to prepare to rest, and make Bilbo Baggins—the newest and cutest addition to their family—as comfortable as he could be.

But Bungo was, unfortunately, very much correct: his son was to be completely and utterly different.

Though, of course, Bilbo Baggins himself did not know this—nor did he know of how his parents came to receive him.

Yes, yes, he was told about being placed on a doorstep, and that it had been instructed to Belladonna and Bungo to take care of him, but the prayers to Persephone, and the idea that he may, in fact, be a Godling? No. No, there was no reason to place that burden on their boy, the parents reasoned, there was no need to give him a title that wasn’t even confirmed to be true.

And there was no reason to give Bilbo’s peers any more reason to tease him.

For you see, it wasn’t just the fact that he was related to Belladonna and gained her adventurous spirit early on that caught the eyes of others. There were…other things. Small things.

Like how, when he was younger, Bilbo was draw to his mother’s gardens day in and day out—he would sit amongst the flowers, as if he could hear them talk, and as if they could listen to his own babbling too. As if the bluebells whispered secrets and as if the roses gossiped about the neighbors.

And when he aged, he was able to plant his own carnations and ivy and begonias and many, many more; some seeds that, unbeknownst to Bungo and Belladonna, that changed into… _different_ flowers than what they had originally been. Grape seeds became blueberries because he wished it; roses became lilies because he loved lilies more.

And when he helped Bungo with the crops as a youngling, many mentioned how the corn seemed to multiply—that there was more at the end of the day than there was in the beginning of the season. And eyes gazed at how the tomatoes seemed bigger and juicer and that the soil was richer whenever Bilbo sat in it and stared at the sky, as if he was speaking to the spirits of the Earth themselves.

And he was a sight when he was in his early twenties, helping out in the garden, and it started to pour—and he kept working, humming along, as if he had expected the rain to come and make the soil all that more richer.

But it was at this time that, unbeknownst to Bilbo, the other side of his powers came forth.

The powers and magic his Father had given him—and whereas his Mother gave life…

His Father gave and brought Death.

It had been summer and Bungo was working on the roof, when Bilbo ran out to greet him with a smile, shouting, “Father! Can I help?”

“Aha! Oh, my dear boy, of course you-“

But when his father had gazed over at his blessed son, his heart gave out completely, and he fell from the roof; the world seemed to slow, then, as Bungo landed, wide-eyed, in the lily patch and as Belladonna screamed in agony from the window, and she screamed again a day later, when they buried her husband in the cemetery.

“…Mother, I…I’m sorry…” Bilbo whispered as Belladonna sat against the glass panes, three days later, “I…I don’t…I don't know what happened, and I...I couldn't catch him-”

“Shh, my boy…You…You didn’t do anything…It's not your fault, my baby boy."

It wasn’t anything special, she told herself; it wasn’t because of Bilbo’s presence or his aura or his living self. He was still her special, strange, boy, the one she loved and had raised and nursed and would do anything to protect.

Protect him with your lives, the letter had said—and Bungo had done that.

But then Bilbo placed his hands softly on her shoulders, and squeezed, “We can do this together, Mother. I promise.”

And a chill racked Belladonna’s body, her skin turning a bit more paler—even more so when Bilbo kissed her lovingly on the head and hugged her close with an “I love you…”

She gave her blessing in turn, even though it seemed all the energy was drained from her very pores.

And when she herself died three days later, the neighborhood said it was heartbreak.

Bilbo instead wondered if he was cursed.

Because at the sudden and strange loss of his parents at twenty-three, he was talked of and looked at as if he was a demonic creature, a vile specimen, even though he had felt nothing but love and compassion for those who had raised him off their doorstep.

Even if they had never told him what the necklace he always had meant—they had known, Bilbo knew, but he never pressed.

They had always known best.

And as the next handful of years passed, Bilbo felt he was even more cursed.

For more and more of those he knew dropped off the face of Middle Earth.

It began with his plants—the garden died early on after his mother’s passing; the neighbors chalked it up to grief and Bilbo not wanting to be amongst the flowers.

But he _was_ amongst the flowers; crying, sobbing, and hitting the dirt. Each plant heard his screams of loneliness and yet not one flower did a thing to cure him.

And though all could see that Bag End’s garden was dying, no one truly took into account how fast it died—flowers were wilted in a matter of hours or short span of days, and Bilbo, though young, wondered if he should stop touching them so much.

But the flowers weren’t the only victims—his loneliness was too much for his small, young body, and it manifested into strange, impossible ways.

At twenty-five, after getting into an argument with his cousin Lobelia, and wagging his finger at her, she was found dead in her kitchen, a heavy shelf full of cutlery having fallen on her. It had killed her instantly.

At thirty, his old Gamgee friend’s sister, who had been in town to see them all and had brought Bilbo some cookies she and the lovely Bell had made, was later found dead, asleep in her bed with a smile on her face, her cookies having been eaten happily. Bell, thankfully, was spared.

And the random, happenstance deaths of those who were close to Bilbo, or the things he was close to, occurred for another full year, until he was thirty-one, and until there were few left around him, and until there were only a few that wished to speak to him—Drogo, his cousin, and his wife Primula, Gaffer Gamgee and his wife, and…well. Only them.

Well, there was that one strange man, Gandalf, that visited now and again. Bilbo wasn’t really sure how he had become friends with someone whose beard dragged the ground, and who walked on a staff with a pointy, gray hat. But he would take companionship where he could get it.

Companionship drowned out the gossipers, after all.

But the flowers and the garden were still there; they had been revived early on, as Bilbo’s heart lifted; truly, though, when he was upset, a bush or two would die now and then, or a bed of flowers, or even a potted plant. But it was still there, bright and blooming as always, usually, and it was a solace for Bilbo, a solace to run and hide in when he couldn’t stand the sneers or jeers or just drop-dead looks anymore.

Because it was as if the world thought he was a monster—but just because those around him seemed to die unusually was not a reason to label him ‘strange’.

Though Bilbo himself felt he was indeed strange…

“You are not strange, dear fellow!” Gandalf once laughed, “You are just different!”

“Different can mean strange, Gandalf.” Bilbo huffed as he served the tea, “No matter, I will just…keep to myself.”

And he did—for over a decade, Bilbo kept to himself. His home was his protection, and when he did venture out, he kept the conversation short, the touching even shorter and lesser, and he only left for the things that were necessary: acquiring food and seeds and tools and clothes.

He was never invited to parties or celebrations, so there was nothing to miss, there. Nor was he thought of as someone children should be around, so no babysitting ventures or childhood birthday parties for him.

He only kept one living creature with him: a cat he had so eloquently named Precious, an orange tabby that had once followed him home, and, well, might as well help the poor thing, right? It did not harm him, but instead loved him, and didn’t balk when he found himself whispering to the roses about how sometimes he was just so lonely, what can I do? And Precious didn’t murmur about how he gingerly touched the lilies and whispered that he wished he knew why people around him died.

But of course, as he aged, Bilbo unknowingly became a master of his abilities—for you see, because he did not know his true identity, nor had he accepted it, his powers weakened and lessened. Souls were no longer in danger of just dropping dead from his words once he reached his age of fifty, but the fear was still there. People still feared him, for memories can last a lifetime--and grudges even longer.

No matter, he always told himself, there was just him, and Precious, and his home, his Bag-End. That was how it would be forever, if needed; he would be content with that.

But, poor, poor Bilbo, should have known that he would not end up being that ‘content’ forever.

For, like prayers, visitations can also be…quite unexpected.

\---

_Forty-Nine Years after Bilbo’s Birth, in the Town of Bree_

\---

Thorin really didn’t want any trouble; he never really did, now that he was too old for that sort of thing.

Sure, maybe when he had been his nephews’ ages, he would have been up for trouble—causing ruckus, getting into fights, that sort of thing. But considering he was around one-hundred and ninety-five years old, with gray streaks starting to show in his long, raven-colored hair, he figured that ‘trouble’ had come and past.

All he truly wanted, on this cold, rainy night, was a warm meal in The Prancing Pony; he had been working in Bree for about five months, smithing the finest swords for the sweatiest and ugliest men he had ever seen, and now that he had just gotten paid again, he wanted to treat himself to a mug of ale and some actually decent meat to eat.

Granted, if he wanted decent meat, he probably should return to the Blue Mountains and eat some of his sister’s homemade roast.

But that was out of the question—the family needed the money, their people needed the money, and besides…

His smithing had become… _legendary_. 

So which was why, as he sat under the amber candles and dimmed lamps, he wanted to be left alone. He just wanted peace and quiet, he just wanted-

“Thorin Oakenshield…” An elderly voice laughed as a figure seated itself across from him, and spoke in even quieter tones, “Son of Hephaestus, Son of Aphrodite…”

Great.

“Gandalf.” Thorin snorted around his ale, “Son of the Sibyl of the Istari, the one they call Mithrandir. If we are going to go about swinging titles so carelessly, give me the leave to do the same to you.”

Gandalf merely smiled under his bushy brows, “Still have your father’s hard-as-stone attitude, I see.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Thorin returned, “He has been dead for some time.”

Gandalf sighed, then, taking off his hat and motioning for a barmaid to bring him something to eat, “Now, now. Don’t be so harsh and downtrodden with me. I bring you good news.”

Thorin chose not to speak, and instead deigned to eat more of his food with what could almost be called a glare on his face, and a scowl on his lips, both of which usually came across as intimidating; the Son of the Sibyl instead took this as a sign to continue with his words without a care for Thorin's current mood,

“Thorin. It’s time for you and the others of your kin that have been blessed as Holy to take their rightful place again.”

“…Are you telling me I should retake Erebor?” He was actually flabbergasted at the idea; sure, he had thought of doing so when he was younger, when he was more naïve, but now…

Now there was just no way.

“And the sea around it, and Erebus—the Underworld. It is time you take back your heritage!”

“With what? Me and the few others who still carry the blood of the Gods in our veins? We barely number thirteen, and that is if you count the sons of the Anemoi and other minor gods that exist among us.”

Gandalf, his eyes twinkling, a smirk on his face, just pressed on, despite the negativity from his dining companion; however, he waited, for a bountiful plate of vegetables was placed in front of him, and the wizard—the Sibyl’s son—began to eat while humming and in turn caused Thorin to stew and wait until the other wished to speak.

Never let it be said that Gandalf the Grey was never vindictive or hated to have others bend to his whim.

“You number thirteen now—but I have found someone to assist you.”

“Oh? Have you found Zeus himself?” Thorin laughed derisively into his plate; normally, Gandalf would have no patience for arrogance, but in this case…

“No, my friend. I have found you the son of Hades.”

In this case, the shock on Thorin’s face was worth it.

“…What?” His fork was slowly put down, and icy eyes widened, “You…You are lying. Hades…Hades never had children.”

“He did, just before he perished. From what I gather, his son was placed in an otherworldly mechanism before he was killed…a mechanism that was activated by heartfelt prayers from desperate people.”

“…A son of Hades truly lives?”

“Yes, he lives. He is fifty next year, Thorin. And he is ready.”

“Does he know?” Thorin leaned in, “Does he know who he is? _What_ he is?”

Gandalf shook his head, “His parents never told him. But he’s always known he’s been…different. I believe that, if told to assist you and if encouraged to go with you and your kin, he shall fully awaken into what he is—a God of Life and Death.”

Thorin let out a breath then, sitting back against the bench, eyes daring about in wonder and awe, and he chose his next words carefully,

“You…do realize that because the lines of Poseidon and Zeus died out, he would technically be the heir to Erebor—he…he is meant to be the King of the Gods.”

“I am certain you and he could deal with that another time. You are still the heir to the people of Durin, your dwarrow kin, and you and those who are Holy have deemed you worthy of being King of the Gods if the Mountain was to ever be yours again. But Thorin,” Gandalf leaned in closer now, “This is your chance. He will be able to help you—he is strong, even if he does not realize it. He has courage and life and I know he is your missing key to the Mountain.”

“You seem to forget that Smaug and his Titans and Giants rule that Mountain. And they will eventually know we are coming for them, if we are to do this journey. They will retaliate.”

“And? Are you not ready to defeat him, Thorin? For your kin? For the people you love and who followed those old Gods for centuries?”

“…I…”

He trailed off, then, because Thorin’s blood was boiling again; he could feel the passion to fight stirring in his veins, the fires of the forge that had borne him were aching to return home, to the top of the Holy Mountain and reign again. And underneath, in the caverns and halls, his dwarrows kin would live in peace and prosperity, blessed by the children of the Gods themselves, and they would live the rest of their days in peace.

And Thorin would be able to find Hephaestus’ Hammer and become the God-Child he was meant to be. And he would wear the crown his Mother had worn, the Goddess of Love and Passion, and he would stir the hearts of his people to be with one another and succeed in their abilities and families and lives.

He would become the Leader he was destined to be—they all would. Hermes’ son would fly again. Hestia’s boy would warm the hearths and hearts of all those who adored them. And his nephews…

They would reign over the sun and the moon just as they had been destined to do.

“…Give me a year.” He told the other, “To prepare them. Prepare ourselves.”

“Wonderful. I have already been keeping an eye on him ever since he was a child. It is why I spent so much time in the Shire.”

“Ah, of course, that-“

Wait.

The Shire?

“…He’s not a dwarf?”

Gandalf merely shrugged, “My dear Thorin, many holy deities in this world are not dwarrows. The elves-“

“Follow another religion entirely, and I will not speak of how Thranduil and Elrond run their own pantheons.” He huffed, “…But…he is…?”

“A hobbit, yes.”

Thorin suppressed a groan, “Next you will tell me there actually _is_ a son of Zeus or Poseidon out there, and that they are a Man!”

Gandalf said nothing, which, well, it should have pulled Thorin up short to question him more, but he believed it would be smarter not to.

“Fine. I will take the hobbit with me. This…Son of Hades, you claim to have under your protection. But he better not fail me, and I will not tell him of the Laws that speak of how he could rule. He must earn that. He must be worthy of that.”

“Very well. But the thirteen of you and I must explain to him who he is. So be prepared to do that.”

Gandalf stood with a hum, plopping his hat on his head, and placing a few coins for his meal on the table.

“Bilbo.”

“Bilbo…?” Thorin gave him a look, “Ah. Yes. Doesn’t that mean-“

“That is the boy’s name, Thorin. Keep it close to your heart, or I am afraid we will fail.”

And then he left, without a word, leaving Thorin to prepare for what was to come.

And oh, Thorin was going to prepare.

It was time.

It was time to return to the Age of Gods—to the prosperity of the dwarrows and the others who would pray to their deities if needed. It was time for their pantheon to be restored to glory.

And no Titans, Giants, or Death-defying hobbits would stand in his way.

Not now, and not ever again.

\----


End file.
